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Line It's probably all about this clean line—Japanese poets, seventeenth, eighteenth century. Probably in a small town which you know well or at least visited once or twice, with pines and wooden houses, a cafe, a church, a derelict Jewish graveyard. Probably something still remains in the portfolio of an amateur photographer (who most likely goes to the capital once a week to capture scenes), unless he's already cropped these black-and-white trees and lilac bushes —perhaps not yet. It's probably about a drawing with children, a swing, a queue outside the shop, with a dog even, a mutt caught by the dog-catcher taken away on a flat cart seventeen years ago; with a candle stub when the light goes out and when you have to go to bed by candlelight. The drawing's to be clean: underwear dries on a line, a blue pajama top's just falling to the ground, louder and louder someone's voice calls out "Jurek, Jurek"; next to the house, in the woods, Jurek's sister collects brush. 72 ...